


THE ANGEL AND THE JERK//YOUR PERFECT WEAPON

by mccrackalacken



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pet Store, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mccrackalacken/pseuds/mccrackalacken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard is short on cash, and needs to apply for a job to keep his lifestyle afloat... at a doggy daycare. Only problem: he's scared shitless of dogs. And puppies. And anything with more/less than two legs. It kind of sucks, except for the fact his new boss is sort of cute, sort of under-age looking, but still pretty cute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE ANGEL AND THE JERK//YOUR PERFECT WEAPON

**Author's Note:**

> The 'SUICIDAL' cap Frank is wearing is by the band Suicidal Tendencies, they're really popular so you probably knew that.  
> You need to listen to more 90s emo, too. 
> 
> This and a second chapter are all I have written - forgive me! No beta, so if you see a major mistake, please leave me a comment! This is my first fic in bandom so... hey, put that gun down, i'm not going to ruin shit for you!! I hope.

To put it simply, Gerard was broke. “Ma,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. “I can't afford this month's food. I'm barely getting the rent down.”  
“Gerard,” Ms Way sighed, ash falling from the end of her lit cigarette. “I can't help you, you know that-”  
“Just let me move in,” Gerard says, to the point. Ms Way looks taken back, hand frozen half-way to her lips.  
“What?” she asks in disbelief. “You've moved out now, Gerard,” she says in a warning tone. “You don't want to be moving in – even Mikey's moving out next month!”  
Gerard sighs, crosses his arms over the cold wood of the kitchen table. The light filtering through the window is full of dust, a dirty yellow glow, casting long shadows across the pepper shakers and the coffee mugs and the vase of wilting flowers. “It's fine. I'll pay all I can. I won't borrow any money, Ma – I just need a roof and some food. _Please_ , Ma-”  
His mother sighs, a small smile appearing on her face, smile-lines deepening, cracks in her makeup. “You're too much like me when I was young. I moved out and I was straight back in – I guess you lasted longer, hey?” Ms Way moves to stand, hand never leaving the back of her seat until her cigarette is snubbed in the glass tray, cherry smouldering in the ashes. She moves to the sink, coffee mug in hand, other planted in Gerard's hair, mussing it, the tangles catching on her slender fingers. “ _Boys_ ,” she says, and Gerard grins at his intertwined hands, laying flat on the table before him.

-

“Groan,” Gerard says, and so does Ray, hands gripping the controller in his hands so hard his knuckles flush white. Gerard's lying flat across Ray's single bed, head hanging off the edge, legs bent and pressed against the wall, his feet scuffing marks along the cream wallpaper. His legs, from here, seem to stretch on forever, a 120° angle up the wall, toes tapping a broken melody from the tips of his Converse. His head feels full, bursting and overflowing, smoke filling the air and blood rushing to his head. He coughs.  
Ray's playing Halo, and it looks pretty intense. He'd abandoned the headset early on, thrown it into the pile of laundry in the corner, cursing loudly. He was good with this – he'd played from the beginning, his father's zeal in every match. It awed Gerard that someone could be so passionate about something that doesn't _exist_. Gerard had favoured to lie there, head slowly pooling with his own blood, light-headed and faint. He didn't really feel the need to sit up, quite yet, doped up and lazy.  
“I love pot,” Gerard says, and Ray nods, not looking down.  
“Same,” Ray says, and barely misses xXH0RRORXx. _Barely_ , but just, escaping from the building by jumping onto the platform below. Gerard takes it as a sign to sit up, struggling to take hold of the baby-blue sheets, throwing himself up in a stupor, swaying back-and-forth dizzily as the blood leaves his head. He doesn't let go of the sheets, simply drops his legs, turns to face Ray instead of the TV.  
Ray glances his way a few times in the next few matches, but as people begin to leave the party, he leaves, turning off the television. He turns to Gerard slowly, controller blinking in his lap. “What's up, Gee?”  
“I think,” Gerard says, smacking his lips. He sticks out his tongue, licking his lips feebly. His mouth feels _dry_ , like _fuck_...  
“Forget it, I need a drink.” Gerard stands up, moving for Ray's door, who shrugs, follows Gerard with a bounce to his step, socks skidding on the floorboards.  
Ray still lives with his parents, but he's not doing all too bad. He helped his father to separate the house, turn it into flats – this way Ray still has the top, and he can rent it out when he leaves, too. It's working out pretty great for everyone. Plus Ray gets to walk around in a t-shirt and boxers all day, which is _awesome_.  
They end up sat with a juice carton each, out on the balcony leading from the lounge, splayed out on the white deckchairs. Gerard's still smoking, smoking more, deftly rolled joint smouldering between his fingers. He's been pretty steady since moving back with his mom, to be honest, constantly intoxicated with something or rather. It makes him feel pretty great, but he tie-dyed all his pyjamas last week, and it made him double-take, wonder exactly _when_ he turned into a hippie. He's kind of scared of himself, the power he has to go from Kick-Ass Leather-Clad Rockstar to Frat Boy Stoner in a matter of weeks. He's kind of in the between stage.  
Ray put out potted flowers in the spring. They've become overgrown, red honeysuckle and bougainvillea saplings cascading over the railing, white daisies blossoming in clusters, yellow wood poppies growing intertwined with the red. It has a nice charm – calming, almost, against the chapped white balcony. Gerard likes it – reminds him of Paris, of his month-long visit back when he graduated college, a gift from his family. He leans back in the chair, a smile on his face, upturned to the sun as if he were a blossom himself. Ray watches the quiet street across his lawn. Mrs Toro is gardening down the far end, pruning the tulips by the sidewalk. The whole house has this kind of homely feel, painting white – suburbia at its finest. But it fits the Toro family – besides, the inside is nothing like it, popping with colour and full to the brim with trinkets and posters and half-disemboweled electronics.  
“You know I'm broke,” Gerard starts, a statement rather than a question, and Ray nods, not looking from the greenery below. “Are there any jobs going at Eyeball?”  
Ray turns his head then, head rested against his arms. “I'm sorry,” Ray says, and Gerard takes that as a no before Ray continues. “But I'll help you with a job search, if you want. I have the time.”  
Gerard smiles at this, hazed and joyous. “Really?” he asks. “That'd be awesome!”  
Ray nods, sips his apple juice, sure and steady. “Yeah,” he says, almost as if he was indifferent, but Gerard stands up, ruffles his hair, grins. “Yeah,” Gerard mimics.

-

Ray was meant to help with this – he had seemed sincere and all, he really was sick. Gerard could kind of tell by the way he could barely get his words out, as if the snot from his nose had mutated with his words in some creepy way. Gerard could hear Mrs Toro in the background, tutting, telling Ray to get off the phone in her rich accent, and Ray had given in, muttered a meek 'good luck' before the line died with a droning beep.  
Gerard had checked almost the whole of Newark, hands in the pockets of his best jeans, shoulders hunched under the inevitability that he'd be left jobless _again_ , a whole day wasted for nothing in the blazing heat. He hadn't dressed properly, a black button-down over a t-shirt, jeans too tight and Converse too sweaty. He was scared he was scaring half the women at the desks off – he must have looked a sight, hot and bothered in the foyers, job application in hand.  
This was his last stop. His mother had told him to try – 'a nice, relaxed daycare,' she'd said 'you would probably be on the desk anyway' – and he'd begrudgingly agreed, wavering under the cool breeze of the AC, kitchen lights flickering above him.  
It was a doggy daycare, hidden away off Main Street, a small shop with glass windows, the sign in the window turned to 'OPEN – COME ON IN!', dogs adorning the yellowing paper.  
He pushed open the door with a sigh, bell ringing above the doorway with a cheerful tinkle. 'Happy Tails' the signage outside had said, cartoons of jolly dogs painted beside it, tails wagging and bowls full.  
There's a counter lining half of the far wall. Dozens – _dozens_ – of photos of dogs are pinned to it, to the walls, pin-tacks sticking out everywhere. It creeps Gerard out, makes him double-take, eyes wide and confused.  
Gerard, to put it simply, is fucking scared of dogs. And cats. And puppies. And anything else with more/less than two legs. He wasn't sure why – he hated the way they all bounded up to him, tails wagging, mouths panting. He hated the barking – he jumped every time – hated their slobbery tongues licking him all over, hated the hair covering his clothes whenever he came into contact with a dog, a puppy, a kitten – _whatever_ , they all scared him absolutely shitless. He didn't know why he even took his mother's advice, and as he turned a fast 360 to get out as soon as humanly possible, he heard a cough, a weak 'excuse me?'  
His head snapped up, _oh God_ , and he turned to face the source of the voice, eyes wide with fear.  
A young boy is stood just inside the 'STAFF' door, cheeks flushed and mouth turned down at the sides, looking concerned and almost confused, slim fingers gripping the doorframe.  
He's wearing a red and blue company shirt, red panelling the sides and blue adorning the front, a bright blue. He has a name tag, but it's fastened in such a way Gerard can barely see it, barely read the illegible handwriting. “Huh,” Gerard says, and the boy juts out his chest, looks defiant, less confused and more concerned.  
“Are you okay, Sir?” the boy asks, moving to stand behind the desk, and Gerard turns towards him just as fast as his feeble attempt to leave. “Are you coming to collect a pet?”  
Gerard shakes his head no, automatic and jerking. His eyes land on a photo of a grinning golden retriever just to the right of the boy's head – can dogs even fucking _grin_ –  
“No,” Gerard says, moving towards the desk. The boy is cute – man? Is he even eighteen? The thought creeps Gerard out, makes him look away and bite his lip. “I'm, uh, looking for a job. As a receptionist, or something.”  
“Ah!” the boy's face lights up, grin appearing, almost too big for his face, stretching the lines around his eyes out, smoothing them out. Jesus, he could be sixteen, fifteen if Gerard really tries –  
“Are you Donna's son?”  
“What the fuck?” Gerard mumbles under his breath, and the boy giggles. He has a pot laugh, high and youthful. “Uh, yeah?”  
“She called!” the boy says. He has a fucking lip ring, biting at it with his upper lip, sucking it in. “She said – I quote here, _Gerard_ , – that you 'need to conquer your fears', need to 'move your fat ass out of her basement'. I may or may not have reserved you a job we don't exactly have. I don't exactly have.”  
“Wait – firstly, how do you know my name. And secondly, 'I'? You're like, ten.”  
“Firstly-” the boy grins, holding up a finger, head tilted at an angle. It's kind of adorable. “Donna told me. She knows Linda, my Ma. Secondly, I'm the boss. I'm twenty-fuckin'-two, motherfucker. Frank Iero, aka your new boss. You're hired. You're working the daycare.”  
Gerard blinks – doesn't stop blinking for a few moments, slightly dazed. Frank has some sort of pointing thing going on, waving his arms everywhere and doing stupid grins over his hands. It's kind of the sort of thing Gerard sees in an anime, but actually there, moving and animated – it's fucked up. It fucks him up. “What?” Gerard says.  
Frank's stood there, hands braced against the countertop. His chest is jutting out, and there's a shit-eating grin over his stupid pretty face. He _does_ look fifteen – even more youthful in his smile, perhaps shorter – but he's trying to talk like some big-shot businessman. It's kind of cute – kind of annoying, too, the flair he puts on it. Gerard can see a single nautical star tattooed on the inside of his right arm. It makes Gerard frown – it's too generic for the man in front of him, who's wearing _fucking eyeshadow for Christ's sake_ -  
“You'll be starting Monday. Gives you the weekend to prepare, eh?” Frank pushes an envelope across the table, haphazardly re-taped at one end. It looks like it's been returned quite a few times. “We'll do induction on Monday,” Frank says as Gerard timidly tip-toes forwards a few steps, reaches for the envelope, which Frank jokingly takes away. “No way. This is your shirt in here, and a name tag for you to do and, uh, employment agreements and stuff? Salary and safety and a handbook. It's cool. No smoking around the dogs, either – I can smell that shit on you, I'm not letting you give the dogs lung cancer. They're much cuter than you, I'd rather you die.” Frank slides the envelope back across the desk, and Gerard takes it, heavy and bulging in his hands. He looks at it, rotates it in his hands, a confused look on his face. Frank laughs, high and mocking, pushing at Gerard's shoulder over the desk. He doesn't move his hand, just keeps smiling - “right. $10 an hour, flat rate. Might get improved if you're nice, and Donna invites my Ma around more, because she loves her cookies. See you Monday, Gerard.”  
“Later,” Gerard says, puzzled, and ambles out of the small store, mouth turned down on one side, door swinging shut behind him.


End file.
